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“For mercy’s sake,” said Cynthia, “what has the truth got to do with it! This isn’t a matter of religion or martyrdom; it’s a matter of business! How to put an end to my husband’s troubles and to enable my son to marry the girl he loves?–that’s your problem; and the solution is–lie! Whom can the money come from if not from you? Not from me certainly. You must lie! You’d better begin in the dark, where your husband can’t see your face–because I’m afraid you don’t know how very well. But after a time it will get easy; and when you’ve told him the story two or three times–with details–you’ll end by believing it yourself…. And, of course,” she added, “you must make over half of the securities to G. G., so that he will have enough money to support a wife.”

For two hours Cynthia wrestled with G. G.’s mother’s conscience; but, when at last the struggling creature was thrown, the two women literally took it by the hair and dragged it around the room and beat it until it was deaf, dumb, and blind.

And when G. G.’s father came home G. G.’s mother met him in the hall that was darkish, and hid her face against his–and lied to him! And as she lied the years began to fall from the shoulders of G. G.’s father–to the number of ten.

VII

Cynthia was also met in a front hall–but by her father.

“I’ve been looking for you, Cynthia,” he said gravely. “I want to talk to you and get your advice–no; the library is full of smoke–come in here.”

He led her into the drawing-room, which neither of them could remember ever having sat in before.

“I’ve been talking with a young gentleman,” said her father without further preliminaries, “who made himself immensely interesting to me. To begin with, I never saw a handsomer, more engaging specimen of young manhood; and, in the second place, he is the author of some stories that I have enjoyed in the past year more than any one’s except O. Henry’s. He doesn’t write over his own name–but that’s neither here nor there.

“He came to me for advice. Why he selected me, a total stranger, will appear presently. His family isn’t well off; and, though he expects to succeed in literature–and there’s no doubt of it in my mind–he feels that he ought to give it up and go into something in which the financial prospects are brighter. I suggested a rich wife, but that seemed to hurt his feelings. He said it would be bad enough to marry a girl that had more than he had; but to marry a rich girl, when he had only the few hundreds a year that he can make writing stories, was an intolerable thought. And that’s all the more creditable to him because, from what I can gather, he is desperately in love–and the girl is potentially rich.”

“But,” said Cynthia, “what have I to do with all this?”

Her father laughed. “This young fellow didn’t come to me of his own accord. I sent for him. And I must tell you that, contrary to my expectations, I was charmed with him. If I had had a son I should wish him to be just like this youngster.”

Cynthia was very much puzzled.

“He writes stories?” she said.

“Bully stories! But he takes so much pains that his output is small.”

“Well,” said she, “what did you tell him?”

“I told him to wait.”

“That’s conservative advice.”

“As a small boy,” said her father, “he was very delicate; but now he’s as sound as a bell and he looks as strong as an elk.”

Cynthia rose to her feet, trembling slightly.

“What was the matter with him–when he was delicate?”

“Consumption.”

She became as it were taller–and vivid with beauty.

“Where is he?”

“In the library.”

Cynthia put her hands on her father’s shoulders.

“It’s all right,” she said; “his family has come into quite a lot of money. He doesn’t know it yet. They’re going to give him enough to marry on. You still think he ought to marry–don’t you?”

They kissed.

Cynthia flew out of the room, across the hall, and into the library.

They kissed!